Rock Bay
by Mechabeira
Summary: "Was it the dramatic scenery? The bone-deep chill? The lingering mist? The blue-black water below their window?" Casefile. T/Z
1. Chapter 1

**Thanks: girleffect, Amilyn.**

**Disclaimer: not mine. No profit, nor prophet.**

**Canada. Casefile. T/Z.**

. . . .

Ziva would never get used to spring in DC. She'd never get used to the stickiness, the rising odor of diesel exhaust, the tourists and school buses that brought traffic to an absolute _crawl_. She'd never get used to the cherry blossoms, either, or the thrum of the marching bands during the annual festival, or the clean smell of green earth after a rainstorm.

She _was_ used to the bullpen, though. The orange walls, the Monday-morning sun on the carpet, the inky smell of the copier. She tossed her bag under her desk and sat down to log in. Maybe she'd buy a bicycle and ride in. Reduce her carbon footprint. There were showers in the locker room. Perhaps she could even cut down on her time in the gym. She could cook more at home, then. Or read more. Or maybe even buy a television and find a program to watch. An escape.

She was halfway into an email about travel reimbursements when a file landed on her desk. "Pack a bag, David."

She sat up, a little intrigued, a little irritated—she wanted to hike the Northwest Branch Trails that evening. Days were longer. She'd have enough light. "Where am I going?"

He sat at his desk, tossed the empty coffee cup. "Canada."

She'd flown through Montreal a few times. "Why?"

"Because you got a _case, _Ziver. You're meeting DiNozzo at Dulles at ten-hundred."

Dulles. They were flying commercial. She gathered her bag, glanced once, longingly, out the window. She'd miss the end of the cherry blossoms.

"Better get," Gibbs prodded. "Less than three hours."

She picked up the file. It was only a few pages long. "Parsons is still...eyeing around."

His tone sharpened. "Think I can't handle the team without you, David? Don't forget your passport."

She pushed the elevator button. Her passport. Her _American_ passport. She'd lost count of how many stamps were in it. "I will not," she retorted, feeling a little churlish, and caught his tiny smirk as the doors closed.

. . . .

"_Zee-vah_!" Tony cried, looking fresh and clean in a chambray button-down and jeans. Rugged. Healthy. And happy to see her. "Big adventure, huh?"

She felt like a wet rag having hauled through security and the canned-air terminal to get to the international gates. "It is a case, Tony, not a vacation."

She took a squelchy vinyl seat. He slapped a _Lonely Planet_ guidebook on her knee. _British Columbia and the Canadian Rockies_. There were craggy, snowy peaks and an alpine lake on the cover. She thought of _Heidi_ and _The Sound of Music_. And yet they weren't leaving the continent. "Wanna read up?"

She did, actually, but didn't touch it. "Once we're in the air."

He rose, stretched. She breathed in his musky, male scent. "I'm gonna grab a coffee. You want?"

"No, thank you." Her stomach was churning. It couldn't be nerves, could it?

He shrugged and sauntered away, returning as she thumbed to the section about Victoria. She frowned; it looked so British in the photos. She had imagined lumberjacks and pickup trucks, not high tea. _When Winter Olympics host Vancouver hogged the spotlight in 2010, many people thought they were seeing British Columbia's capital city_.

"We're taking at least one ferry," he said.

Ziva blinked. A ferry. A _legitimate_ ferry. She flipped the page and read aloud. _"BC Ferries arrive from mainland Tsawwassen at Swartz Bay_, _twenty-seven kilometers north of Victoria on Highway Seventeen._"

Tony licked chocolate donut off his fingers. "Yeah, it'll be a few hours once we land in Vancouver before we're at the hotel."

"Sounds like we are going to the end of the earth."

"In a way." He handed her a pastry bag. Inside were a single croissant and a pat of butter. He knew her too well.

She smiled. "Thank you."

"There's a meal, but it might not be kosher, so..."

"I do not keep kosher, Tony."

He grinned and bumped their shoulders together. "But you have _very_ high standards."

She stifled a giggle. They'd been looser around each other since her father's passing. "Not _so_ high," she retorted, and gave him a sly look.

The gate agent called for business class and he stood,grinning, and pulled her up with him. "Touché. C'mon. We're boarding."

She was astounded but didn't show it—she'd never flown anything but coach with NCIS, but they were shown to the forecabin and offered drinks. Tony got a Coke. She asked for a sparkling water and picked out the lime when it arrived.

"Guess Vance figured we needed a break," Tony said, eyes roving.

A flight attendant closed the curtain with a jerk. Ziva sipped her water. "I suppose."

"Been through a lot lately."

Ziva would not open up here, now. "It has been a difficult year."

They taxied to the runway. The flight attendants went through the safety procedures like pretty robots. She waited for Tony to make some film reference, but he was quiet and looking at her with a small, questioning smile on his handsome face.

His concern was endearing and a little irritating. "What?"

"What-_what_?"

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

His smile didn't fade. "Haven't had much chance to connect since you came back from your father's funeral."

She studied the seatback in front of her. She'd gone to the Cherry Blossom Festival alone, walked the promenade alone, eaten take-out alone, gone to the Museum of Natural History alone. She'd thought to call him once, tossed her mobile on her dresser, and left it there until that very morning. "I needed some space," she said carefully.

They lifted off. Her ears popped from the pressure. Tony opened a sports magazine and turned to a page about professional football. Ziva could never understand the appeal, but swallowed her chiding and opened the guidebook again. _Victoria, like many Vancouver Island communities, continues to have a sizable First Nations presence, composed of peoples from all over Vancouver Island and beyond. _

She looked at Tony. "I have not been to the American Indian museum yet. Would you like to go next weekend?"

He put down his magazine. The page he'd been reading had a very large, very sweaty basketball player on it. "Can I buy brunch first?"

Her face warmed. Was she blushing? "Yes. Saturday?"

He tweaked her chin, smiled, and returned to his magazine. Ziva went back to the guidebook. _Next, head up to the First Peoples exhibit with its fascinating masks gallery—look for a ferret-faced white man_.

Schmiel would dislike that. _Neo-colonialism, my Ziva, _he would warn. _It was not so long ago that Jews were put on display like animals in cages, forced to sing or dance, forced to assimilate, forced into the ovens. _

"Never mind," she said abruptly.

Tony had been dozing. "No? Ok, well, another time, then."

"No!" she blurted. "I mean I would rather go someplace else."

"Van Gogh exhibit?"

Paintings were safe. "Yes, that. Same time?"

He grinned a sleepy grin. "Sure."

_Mon Petit Pois_. She tucked the guidebook into the seatback pocket and drew her legs up. The cabin was cold now that they were at cruising altitude.

A passing attendant clucked and handed her a blanket. "Here, sweetheart."

_Sweetheart_. Ziva took it and smiled her thanks, tucked it around her. The clouds broke apart, and she blinked lazily at the patchwork of farmland below her window. If Tony were awake he might scoff something about _flyover states_, but she thought about farmhouse window seats, family meals, linking hands around a rough-hewn table. Prairie grasses shimmering in the wind.

. . . .

Ziva woke with a start when the wheels touched down. The guidebook slid from her lap and landed with a _clunk_. Tony smiled. "_Bienvenue á Canada_, Sleepyhead."

She worked her sticky mouth. "_Toda_."

The plane pulled up to the jetway. The other passengers rose, stretched, gathered their belongings. Tony pulled her half-empty backpack out of the overhead bin and handed it to her. "Next stop: car rental."

She shouldered her bag and shook her groggy head. It would be too easy to pretend they were just travelers. Honeymooners. A married couple taking their last getaway before children. She watched the backs of his shoes as they made their way to the car rental counter, then out to the covered parking lot. The air was wet and cool. She regretted not packing a winter coat. _In May_, she thought, and scoffed. Fine. A little discomfort would build character.

Their rental was a _rental_—small sedan, nondescript, not particularly comfortable. Tony got in the driver's seat and navigated onto the wet highway. "Straight shot to the ferry terminal."

She frowned. Traffic slowed. "How do you know where you're going?"

He pulled ahead of a battered, rusting pickup. "Studied the map while you were sawin' logs. Speaking of—you ever see a doctor about that?"

"I was _faking_," she sniffed.

"Faking emphysema?"

The highway took them between wet subdivisions, over wet fields. "I am glad I packed a raincoat."

Ton squinted and adjusted the wiper speed. "Yeah, pretty damp."

_Damp_. Ziva almost laughed; while it wasn't pouring, the air was heavy with moisture and standing water rippled on the roadside. The clouds seemed to rest on the treetops.

Traffic thinned once they exited for the terminal and the ocean spanned both sides of the roadway. The water was cloudy grey-green. Fishermen in slickers angled in the shallows. The guidebook had said something about a spring salmon run. "Quaint."

"Canadian," Tony agreed. "Just waiting for the RCMP to pull up on mooseback."

"They are domesticated?" He laughed. She rolled her eyes—she'd walked right into yet another dumb foreigner joke. "You are a stranger here, too, Tony."

"Canada is America's hat."

"_They_ are not universally hated."

"_The Canadian Dream_ just doesn't sound right."

There were only a few cars waiting for the ferry. The clock blinked _5:31_. Twenty-nine minutes until the next boat. She popped the lock on the door. "I am going to the restroom."

"Not in the car."

"_Tony_."

He smiled. "Be careful out there, Sweet Cheeks."

Ziva slammed the door and hustled across the lot to the low steel-and-glass terminal building. Walk-on passengers lounged near the windows, watching seabirds bob on the waves. Heavier, greyer clouds lingered in the north. They'd see a storm before they'd see Vancouver Island.

The bathrooms were clean and private. She washed her hands, rubbed her cheeks with a paper towel, pinched some color back into her face. It was wet all around, but she was dehydrated from the flight and still a little fuzzy from sleeping midday. She looked again in the mirror—better, but not much—and swung out the door.

. . . .

"C'mere," Tony chided from the deck. He was smiling. His hair blew every-which-way.

Ziva stood at the glass door between them, arms crossed. "No."

"C'mon—you need to see this. It's beautiful." A gust of wind flattened his jacket against his body.

"No."

"C'mon, _Zee-vah_. It's really amazing."

She didn't doubt it—the captain was threading the needle, angling the vessel through a narrow channel between two rocky islands, skirting another ferryboat. Homes clung to the cliffs far above the water's white-capped surface. It would be a photo worthy of a frame. She would have put it on the radiator cover in her living room.

But she was freezing. _Freezing-_freezing, even warm and safe, protected from the cold, wet wind. _Like the rest of the Salish Sea, the climate of the Strait of Georgia is disputed, with the Köppen system classifying it as Mediterranean, but most regional climatologists preferring Oceanic_.

"Come _on_," Tony teased. "It's like, almost sixty degrees.

But felt more like forty-five. Mediterranean climate—_shtiut_. "I can see from right here," she promised, but he just threw up his hands and turned to the railing. Rain slashed his broad back.

Ziva wandered across the vessel to a dining room with high-backed booths and a steam table full of comfort foods—chicken in gravy, mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables. Her stomach growled. Her only meal had been that croissant.

Tony came up and tugged her hand. "We have another hour before we land in Swartz Bay. Let's eat."

They sat in an unoccupied window booth. She spread a cloth napkin on her lap. "We should discuss the case."

He pushed a plate in front of her. "Not while we eat."

She couldn't disagree. The food was good—heavy, a little bland, but good—and she finished quickly. A busser took her plate and she slid out for seconds, choosing parsley potatoes, dark meat, pickled cauliflower in yellow brine. She thought of Schmiel's Eastern European fare—kishke and kasha, pickled vegetables, mayonnaise-y salads—and smiled. She would call him once they wrapped the case.

"No salad?" Tony teased.

"I'm cold," she said simply, and ate half her chicken thigh in three big bites.

He looked at her with that sliver of concern. She could see him debating—get in her space, or hold back? "You bring your long johns?"

"I do not own any."

He took a long swallow of orange soda. "There's gotta be a place in Victoria where we can get you some warmer clothes."

"It is May and the case takes precedence."

He pushed his plate away and opened that skinny file. "Ready?"

She did the same. "Yes."

"IRR Marine named Nathan Mertes caught in downtown Victoria with a dead woman in the back of his truck. Swears he has _no idea_ how she got there."

She flipped to the second page. "Who was the woman?"

"VicPD thinks she was a pro."

Her eyes flitted up to his and back down. "Prostitutes have names, Tony. Autopsy?"

"Not done yet."

She turned the page to the woman's photo—bluish flesh, hollow eyes. She could have been a prop from one of Tony's films. "Preliminaries?"

"Signs of torture. Signs of long-term drug use. No cash, no ID, no dental hygiene."

"So she was poor. That does not necessarily mean she was a prostitute."

His eyes went hard above the folder. "You've been around long enough to know the patterns, _Zee-vah_."

"I _know_ that not all women in poverty resort to sex work, _Tony_."

"Not all women in poverty stick needles in their arms or crack pipes in their mouths, either. She had a habit, and I bet she was hookin' to support it."

"_Sex work_, Tony. It's called _sex work_, not _hooking._"

He slapped the folder shut. "What matters is that this woman ended up dead in the back of a pickup truck driven by a US Marine and we have to figure out how. Then we'll wrap it, get you some mittens, and do a little hiking."

Was it that easy? Not likely. She was not settled—not _reconciled_, as Schmiel would say. They'd dealt with cases like this before, but she was on shpilkes this time. Was it the dramatic scenery? The bone-deep chill? The lingering mist? The blue-black water below their window? "Why is Mertes in Canada?"

"Greasy, grimy fishy guts—he dumps halibut into a hopper at the Campbell River Cannery. Seasonal work."

Access, a reasonable place to dump a body. A victim with no name, no face, no paper trail. She got up, palms itching.

Tony raised his eyebrows. "What's up?"

_Nothing. Everything. _There was a map of the island on the wall opposite them. She went to it, traced the route from Campbell River to Victoria with her finger. A fleecy, earnest-looking man brushed past. She grabbed his sleeve. "Excuse me—how long does it take to make this drive?"

She outlined it for him again. He cocked his head, nodded. "Oh three, three-and-a-half hours. You doing some sightseeing?"

"Yes," she answered absently. _More than three hours with a dead woman in his truck. Was he going to dump her along the way and simply forgot?_ Her stomach turned. She swallowed; she would not throw up her big, tasteless meal.

"Might want to get a warmer jacket," he urged, and disappeared down the stairs that would take him to the car decks.

Ziva walked with short, quick steps back to the table. Tony was sprawled there, brow furrowed. "Why you prickly, David?"

He knew she wouldn't answer him.

The ferry engines slowed. Tony got up and nodded at the stairs. "We'll be docking soon."

She lead the way back to the car, taking comfort in the engine noise. The rain picked up as soon as Tony pulled off the ship. A line of cars was all they could see of Highway Seventeen. Flashing brake lights, rumble strips. Ziva squinted through the storm and tried to find the water between the trees. _The Patricia Bay Highway is four lanes between the Swartz Bay Ferry Landing and Victoria. _

"We'll go to VicPD first," Tony said. He had a dreamy, vacant look on his face. Was he speaking to her? "I want to talk to Mertes ASAP."

. . . .

Mertes was defensive, of course. Scruffy, a little grungy, he gestured with work-rough hands though his voice was soft, even tender. "Ma'am, I know you won't believe me, but I did not kill that woman."

Tony slapped the folder down, slid the coroner's photo at him. "_She_ was in your truck. Dead. How did that happen?"

"I don't know," Mertes whined.

He was younger than Ziva—six full years younger—though there were lines around his eyes and mouth. "You've seen combat."

He nodded. Tony offered a bottle of water, but he shook his head. "Two tours in Iraq. Got sent home when my team got blown up. Last guy standing. Literally—everyone else lost legs."

Ziva pressed her lips together. "Why are you in Canada, Nathan?"

"I'm from Port Angeles," he said slowly, opening one hand. "It's across the Strait on the Olympic Peninsula. I got sent home and I was just..._there_. I needed to get out, get to work. My dad gave me a couple hundred bucks and I got on the ferry. Campbell River was the first place that hired me. It's rough, but I get paid cash and no one asks my business."

She crossed her arms. "Except for the woman in the back of your pickup."

"I don't know her!" he shrilled, voice climbing. "I came down here to take a few days off. I got a motel room on Dallas and went out to grab a burger and a beer—_one_ beer. I came back out and there she was. I called the cops right away, and they stuck me in a cell without even asking who I was."

Ziva's stomach tightened. "You have not been questioned?"

"No, ma'am."

"Did they check your identification?"

"My wallet, tags, and phone are in a box somewhere. I got a phone call, but no one answered at my dad's house."

She exhaled. "Write down his number. We will make contact for you."

A tiny light burned in Mertes' tired eyes. "You'd do that?"

"Yes. Just write it down. I will call him and tell him what happened."

He took the pen Tony held out and wrote in small, precise digits. She took it. George Mertes. Area code 360. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_," he replied, and folded his hands. "At least he knew where I was when we were dodging bullets."

She felt a little sick. "I will call your father as soon as I can. Thank you."

VicPD officers took Mertes back to his holding cell. Tony grabbed her elbow as soon as they were out of the building. "You can't do that."

She played dumb. "Do _what_?"

"Call a suspect's family. That has to be a conflict of interest."

She stopped, turned on her heel. Rain slid down her sleeves, in her eyes, down her collar. "His father does not know where he is."

"You're jeopardizing the investigation, _Zee-vah_."

"We sent him off to war. We owe his family a telephone call."

He shut up. They got in the car. It was past seven and Victoria was dark. Not even the rugged Canadians wanted to be out in this weather. "We should go to our hotel," she said quietly. "We will get started again early tomorrow morning."

. . . .

Ziva tucked her keycard into the waistband of her running tights and glanced once more at Tony, asleep in the room's single bed. Oh-four-ten. He wouldn't turn over for another hour.

She _snicked_ the door shut, took the stairs. Outside was cool and damp, but the rain was gone. She started with a brisk walk to warm up. Down the block to the inner harbor, around the wharf, past the shipping-containers-turned-restaurants. A fishing trawler slid out of its slip. Something surfaced and disappeared, surfaced and disappeared at the end of the pier.

She turned toward the park. Benches lined a walking trail along the seawall, but she veered off the paved path up a hiking trail. She was breathing hard by the time she reached the top, where a grassy bluff overlooked the water. The sun was still behind the Olympic Mountains. They presided over the Strait, blue-grey and silent.

Ziva paused to catch her breath while the sky turned from grey, to red, to orange. She checked her watch—oh-four-fifty. Sunrise came early this far north. She turned back down the path, picking up her pace on the downhill. But it was darker under the trees and something snagged her sneaker, sending her face-first into the bushes.

She was up again in a heartbeat, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Just beyond where she'd fallen was a half-circle of tents, some rusted lawn furniture, rain-wet knapsacks, food wrappers. The earth had been trampled bare of grass. This was not a school project; people were living there and she had tumbled gracelessly into their neighborhood.

A man emerged from the tent farthest from her and tugged on his boots, seeming not to care that they were soaked from the overnight rain. He sloshed toward her, limbs hanging loose, one arm wrapped around his middle. She backed away without taking her eyes off him.

"Morning," he said. His unwashed smell wafted on the breeze that hinted of more rain.

"Good morning," she ventured.

"Spare a few toonies? I need something to eat."

She fished five Canadian dollars out of her hidden pocket, but this man wasn't hungry; he was drug-sick. "Here."

His eyes lit up—he'd get a fix. "Thanks," he said. There was real gratitude in his voice.

He sauntered off down the trail. Ziva waited, ignoring the scrapes on her palm and the thorns in her knees, until he was far enough away that she could tail him unnoticed.

He walked her path back to the hotel, circled the building to an alley behind. A van pulled up, rolled laundry carts into a doorway. She slipped between two delivery trucks and watched the man make a quick deal before sliding into a doorway to use.

She trotted through the laundry room to the staff stairway, sprinted to their room, and snagged the file. Tony lifted his head as she caught the door before it could close. "Whadd'ya doin'?"

Ziva hushed him and left, checking her watch—less than a minute. Hopefully she'd catch him before he went off on a nod.

She did, but barely. He was crouched behind a dumpster, knees drawn up to his chest, head hanging. His belt was still around his bicep. "Wake up," she demanded.

He looked up, head bobbing. "Hey, thanks for the meal."

She jabbed the photo at him. "You know her?"

He gave a grunt. "Another dead girl, eh?"

The pins-and-needles feeling returned. "There are more?"

"They've been disappearing down here for years. We called the cops, but they don't want to hear from us. Ask anyone. They all know about it."

She showed him Mertes' mug shot. "You know him?"

"Nah. Looks too clean to be hanging out down here."

_Too clean_. Mertes was scruffy, but showered. "Thanks," she murmured.

"Hey, you got five more bucks so I can get lunch?" She handed him five more. He grinned. "Thanks. I'm set for the day."

She doubted that. "Where are your friends? I want to talk to them."

He got _squirrely_, as Tony would say. "Oh, uh. I don't know, lady. They're around."

She flashed twenty bucks. "I will make it worthwhile."

His eyes glinted. She guessed it was enough to keep him high all day. "Uh, some of my lady friends go to Sandy's House on Burdett."

"Who is Sandy?"

"No, it's a place—meals, showers."

"A shelter?"

"Yeah, but only for women. Everyone's gotta be out by nine."

"Where do they go at nine?"

He was floating away from her, eyes vacant, lids heavy. "They work down around Rock Bay. Girls. Eh?"

_Girls, eh_? "Thanks. What's your name?"

"Patrick."

"Thank you, Patrick."

"You're welcome. Hey, can you do me a favor?"

Another favor. Junkies could be _so_ needy. "What do you want?"

She expected him to ask for more money, but he didn't put his hands out. "My friend Emma disappeared, too. Can you find her?"

"I can try. Can you give me a description? Or would you like to work with a sketch artist?"

Patrick's eyes grew wet. "You'll know her when you see her. She's _beautiful_, ma'am. _Beautiful_."

. . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow, I am so sorry for the delay. **

**Disclaimer: not mine. No money. Ever.**

**Thanks: girleffect, Amilyn.**

**. . . .**

The treads of Ziva's wet sneaker squeaked _Em-ma, Em-ma _all the way to the fourth floor. _Beautiful, ma'am_, she thought, sliding her keycard. The pins clunked. _Beautiful_.

Tony jumped, clutched his bath towel. He wore only boxer-briefs and a stunned expression. "What?"

She toed off her shoes. "What-_what_?"

"What the hell happened to you? You're a mess."

She shrugged, sniffed, wiped her face. She'd gouged open the heels of both hands and dirtied the knees of her running tights. "I went for a jog."

"You're bleeding."

She wet a washcloth in the bathroom. "There's a homeless encampment in the park."

He took it from her and cleaned her hands. "And you dropped in like Dorothy Gale minus the farmhouse?"

Ziva knew that reference. "The only man I saw did not know our Jane Doe. I need to shower, Tony."

He held up her forearm so that she could see it in the mirror. Mud streaked wrist-to-elbow. "I hope you leave enough hot water for the other guests."

Her arm looked strange and limp in his grasp. Her skin rippled. "I am fine."

"You have goosebumps."

She looked _nothing_ like a goose. "Then let me take a shower, _Tony_."

He backed out of the bathroom. She cranked open the taps and peeled off her dirty clothes. The water pounded _Em-ma, Em-ma_ on her back and shoulders, but it ran cold before she could shave her legs. Not that it mattered; she'd only brought jeans.

Her clothes had been laid out—said jeans, a sweater, wool socks. Sturdy hiking shoes waited by the door. She pulled everything on quickly and forwent her usual moisturizer. "Thank you."

Tony was hunched over the laptop. "Sure. Autopsy report's in."

Ziva tied her shoes, ran a comb over her wet hair and tied it back; the rain would ruin anything else she did with it. "Ready."

They walked side-by-side down to their boring rental car, slammed the doors. He started the engine. It chugged _Em-ma, Em-ma, Em-ma_. "I spoke to a man named Patrick."

Tony pulled up to a coffee drive-thru. "Where?"

"The park, initially. He asked me for money."

"And you gave it to him."

"Yes, and then I followed him."

He handed her coffee in a tall paper cup. She caught a fleeting expression as he pulled away from the window—disapproval, that same sliver of concern. "Yeah?"

"He got his fix behind the hotel. I asked him about our Jane Doe and he did not know her. But..." Her throat closed. She took a sip of coffee to open it. "But he said that she's not the first dead sex worker he has heard of."

Tony nodded. "High-risk population, _Zee-vah_."

She tried in vain to warm her hands around her cup. "He asked me to find his friend. She is missing."

He pulled into the parking lot at VicPD. "Did he file a report?"

She paused, not wanting to get out of the car in the rain again. "He said the police did not want to 'speak to them.' I do not know if that means they would not take a report."

"Hard to take a report for transients. They move, they go into hiding, they bounce in and out of rehab and shelters."

She nodded. She was growing numb to the chill now. "Patrick also said that most of them visit a shelter called Sandy's."

He popped the latch on his door. "Maybe we can stop by for the dinner rush."

She followed him into the new glass-and-steel building. It smelled like paint and industrial cleansers. It smelled like the bullpen.

She wanted to go home.

. . . .

Medical Examiner Matt Brown was short and boyish in a plaid shirt and trendy glasses, his shoulders narrow, his demeanor gentle. "I couldn't get an ID," he said, looking genuinely rueful, and she wants to hug him. "But I have submitted her dental records. It will take a few days—we don't have the same technology as the Lower Mainland."

She nodded. "We understand. What can you tell us about COD?"

Matt walks them into cold storage and pulls out Jane Doe's tray. There was an obvious garrote mark across her throat. "Strangulation. But there are indications of torture as per the Istanbul Protocol. Symmetrical injuries around the joints, thermal scarring, corrosive injuries, increased muscle tone just prior to death, and soft tissue injuries to the pelvic girdle."

Ziva exhaled, vision narrowing to pinpricks. The floor was cold through the thick soles of her Vibrams, but her heart thumped along like always. "How recent are these injuries?"

"Three to five days prior to death is my best guess."

She swallowed. Her mouth tasted bitter. Had she remembered to brush her teeth? "Is this your first victim with these injuries?"

"That we've been able to determine, yes."

She glared at him. He cowered. "_What?"_

He cleared his throat. "Wildlife often gets rid of our evidence."

She exhaled again. "But you _have_ found other women—other sex workers—who had been killed?"

"We've found them, yes, but every circumstance is different. Some OD'ed, some died of other natural causes, some were undeterminable."

"_Undeterminable_? Did you not do an autopsy?"

He shifted. "It's not always in the best interest of the victim."

Her stomach soured. Stupid coffee. "You mean it is not always in the best interest of your taxpayer dollars."

Matt bobbed his head. "Um, would you like to speak to my supervisor?"

_Back off_. "No, but I would like to see all reports from the last twelve months involving women in the sex trade."

He gaped. "_All_ of them?"

She looked at Jane Doe's sunken cheeks and eyes, the line around her neck. The rest was hidden with a sheet. "Yes."

He closed the drawer. "I can take you up to Records. Jim or Dan will give you a hand."

_Jim or Dan._ She nodded. "Thank you."

Tony tugged her hand when she jabbed the button for the elevator. Records was on the fifth floor. "Ya ok?"

She pulled away, crossed her arms. _Damn_ it was cold. "This is bigger than we thought."

"Usually is."

"How long has Mertes been in Canada?"

"Three months."

"But he's been home from Iraq for more than a year."

The elevator _bing'd_. "That ferry ride's a short one."

"I will call his father when we go back to the hotel."

Jim or Dan was waiting for them behind a counter. "Matt phoned up, told me what you needed. Give me a minute to pull them."

Files. Records. They had nothing digitized. Ziva only nodded and huffed when he disappeared between the metal shelves full of evidence boxes.

"Patience, Grasshopper," Tony muttered.

"I am not a grasshopper, nor a goose, _Tony_."

He blinked, frowned. "What?"

"What-_what_?"

He laughed a little. "Your English has slipped, Sweet Cheeks. _Goosebumps_—you were cold. You ever see _Kung Fu_? David Carradine a student at the Shaolin Temple? Young, brash, impatient..."

She scowled at him, embarrassed. "No. Shut up."

And thankfully he did in time for Jim or Dan to come staggering back under the weight of two evidence boxes. "Here ya go. Can I help with anything else?"

Ziva pushed the boxes at Tony. He _oofed_. "A Missing Persons report—a woman named Emma."

Jim or Dan harrumphed and gave her a skinny file from his desk. "Ain't much there."

She swallowed a snarl. "Thank you."

He nodded. "Might want to get a warmer jacket. Summer doesn't hit here until July."

She turned and left, trusting Tony to follow. She stayed two steps ahead all the way to the car and pinched the car keys from his pocket. "I will drive."

"The hell you will. All we need is to end up like Mertes over your speeding habit."

She got in the driver's side and slammed the door. He put the boxes in the trunk and came to her window. "Out."

"No."

"Ziva, you're a danger. Out."

She moved the seat forward and put the key in the ignition. "Get in or I am leaving you here."

He flapped his arms. Rain wet his precious hair. "You're a menace."

She put the car in gear. He walked deliberately around the front and slumped in the passenger seat. "Where are we going?"

"You are going back to the hotel. I am going to Rock Bay to do some investigating."

"Rock Bay?"

"Patrick said it was the local stroll."

"And you're taking him at his word." She said nothing. He slapped his hands on his knees when she slowed down to turn down the hotel's parking ramp. "No."

"What?"

He gave her a steady look. "No, you don't get to run off like this. No going rogue, _Zee-vah_. I'm going with you."

"You look like a cop."

"And what do _you_ look like?"

She studied her tidy fingernails and newish jacket. "A woman."

He let a silence lapse, but not for long. "I saw your face when Matt started rambling about torture. You're not one of them, Ziva."

She stared straight ahead. The doorman pushed a brass cart full of luggage up to the trunk of a BMW.

"You have me," Tony whispered.

She put her cold hand on his much warmer one. "I know."

He sat back. "So then let's go. Rock Bay. _Rock the Casbah_."

. . . .

The neighborhood looked like Anacostia and smelled like low tide. Brick buildings sagged under rain and moss—an auto body shop, a soup kitchen, and more that were boarded and tagged with eviction notices. There was the rattle of a jackhammer in the distance and the pounding of sledges in the harbor.

"You lost?" a woman called. She was rail-thin, with hollow cheeks and needy eyes. Her hair was bleach-white and strawlike. She wore no jacket despite the cold and rain. "Or need company? Two at once, or we can take turns."

Ziva ignored her. "What's your name?"

"Nicola."

"Nicola, do you know this woman?"

"Depends on who's asking."

She flashed twenty dollars. "Someone who can pay."

Nicola took the photo, studied it, nodded. "Her name was Donna. Met her up at Sandy's."

"When?"

"Year ago. Said she was from Calgary, but I didn't believe it. Girls from the prairie don't work like her."

"What does that mean?"

"Rich guys work the oil rigs up there, but she pulled dates like she been working the docks. Sometimes ten a night."

"Was she using?"

Nicola laughed. "Honey, we're all using."

Ziva didn't flinch. "Any bad dates lately?"

She slid the twenty from Ziva's fingers. "Yeah."

Ziva flashed another. "Who?"

"White guy in a pickup took Mona out to Port Renfrew and tied her up, but she said he paid more for a lay than she ever made before."

"Plates?"

"BC."

"Have you seen him lately?"

Nicola nodded. "Coupla nights ago. Told Stephie and Katie to stay the hell away from him, but Katie wanted the money to buy her kid a birthday present."

Ziva gave her the second bill. "Can I talk to her?"

"Ain't seen her. Probably went to see the baby. She's with her parents up in Nanaimo."

"Do you know a woman named Emma?"

"You been talkin' to Patrick?"

"Yes."

"Then yeah, I knew her, but she disappeared after talkin' to the cops and ain't nobody seen her since. I told him she either killed herself or the pigs did it, but she's long gone."

"How do you know?"

"She was in real bad shape. Screamin' and cryin' and stuff. Someone said they called her mom in Toronto, but they probably lied." Nicola checked her money and grinned. "Hey, I find anything else I'll come to ya, ok? You cool?"

"I am."

"All right. Thanks, lady."

Nicola sauntered away. A black Honda pulled up next to a stop sign. She got in and it disappeared down Government Street, headed for a chain-linked parking lot near the stinking water's edge.

Tony leaned against the car, arms crossed. "Nice work, Crockett, but you're gonna take us for broke like that."

"If you want the answers then you must pay to ask the questions."

Ziva got in the car. He did, too. She drove the wet streets back to their hotel, where American tourists in sweatshirts wandered in and out of souvenir shops. A sidewalk signboard proclaimed high tea at four o'clock in the Empress Hotel.

They trudged up to their room. Tony peeled off his wet jacket and hung it in the bathroom. He reached for hers, too. "Shoulda grabbed something to eat."

She sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed and pulled the first box toward her. "Why don't you go? I will start. You can catch up when you come back."

He retrieved his dripping raincoat. "What do you want?"

She studied a police report for prostitution. "Surprise me."

He put his thumb and forefinger on her chin and tilted her face toward him. She didn't jerk away. "You ok?"

"I am curious about this bad date. If our Jane Doe was strangled then there is a good chance she was tied up, too, like Nicola said."

"Ziva."

"What?"

"I got your back."

The intention was clear in his green eyes. "I know. Can you get some tea with my lunch?"

"Green or black?"

"Black, please. With milk."

He cupped her cheek. His hand was gentle. "Sure. Anything else?"

She gave him a deliberate look. "No, Tony. Thank you."

She watched him check the lock before leaving and returned to the police report. Taken six days ago, two men were arrested for solicitation, the woman cited, and referred to to Sandy's—the shelter Patrick mentioned. _Refuses to cooperate,_ the notes read. _No ID. Will not respond to police questioning. Will not consent to search_.

She shuffled through call-ins, write-ups, beat reports, contact reports, overnight jail rosters. Arrests, releases. There were few legal names—everyone used street names, nicknames, or inmate numbers. There were pages and pages that contained no useful information. Frustrated, she flipped the box. Papers scattered all over the bed and floor.

"_Benzona_," she cursed, sighing, and slid off the mattress to clean up her mess. This was no way to behave, even in private.

An official-looking letter on linen paper caught her eye first. The letterhead was a red umbrella and an Esquimault address. _These missing sex workers are in danger,_ it said._ They may lead high-risk lifestyles, but they are daughters, sisters, mothers, and aunts and deserve the same attention as any other missing women. Please help us. Signed, the women of PEERS, Victoria and Esquimault. _Attached was a list of eighteen names, each followed by the date they'd been last seen.

Tony returned, key card sliding with a _shick. _Ziva jumped up, crumpling half the box's contents beneath her feet. She gulped air at his puzzled expression. _Easy, David_, Gibbs would have said. "My suspicion is confirmed, Tony-this is much, much bigger than we knew."

He unpacked sandwiches, a soda for him, tea for her. "Yeah?" She thrust out the letter. He stepped closer and took it. Their arms brushed as he read it, swaying a little. "Huh."

Her empty stomach clenched. "Is that all you can say?"

"For now. Let's eat."

He'd gotten falafel. Schmiel had followed her to the end of the earth. She dabbed on some extra tahini and took a big bite, missing him and missing her home, where it was warm and sunny and vaguely sweet-scented from the cherry blossoms.

"Someone was looking for them," she urged, licking pickled cabbage from her fingers.

Tony put down his sandwich. "Yeah."

"I am going to go through that box again—cross-check the MP reports with this list. I will call that organization, too, and interview whoever wrote that. Maybe I can get the names of some of the family members of the women on this list. If not, I can take it to Nicola—she is very knowledgeable. I just want to know why this was not a priority to VicPD. Eighteen women, Tony." Her pulse raced. She drank tea and scalded her tongue. "_Eighteen_. And there is no one named Emma on the list. We may have to go back to Patrick—"

"What about Mertes?"

She looked at the letter, written a year prior. "I do not think he is involved."

"Then how did Jane Doe get in his truck?"

"Sounds like a convenient place to dump a body."

"Sounds too convenient for a wrong-place-wrong-time."

She balled her falafel wrapper, pulled out her laptop, and dialed Gibbs via Skype. "Yeah," he greeted, distracted. He jogged a folder of papers and tossed it on his outbox.

"This is big," Ziva blurted. "And I do not think our Marine is responsible."

He didn't look at her. "You listening to your gut, David?"

"Is that a problem?"

He did look at her, then. "Gotta corroborate your statements."

"There is a history of missing sex workers going back seven years according to a letter I found in some old reports from VicPD. A woman I spoke to this morning said she knows of a bad date and of two women who are missing, one was seen with him."

"Mertes?"

"I..." she fumbled. "I do not know."

"You toss the truck?"

"No." He raised an eyebrow. "But we will do it now."

"Ziver."

"Yes, Gibbs?"

"Easy, all right?"

"Yes, Gibbs."

"DiNozzo?"

He wiped his face on his sleeve. "Yeah, Boss?"

"Get her a warmer jacket," he commanded, and hung up.

. . . .

Ziva peeled back another layer of filthy canvas and gagged; Mertes' truck stunk like dead fish and rotting trash. "I cannot imagine," she gasped. "Why he would bring his work home with him."

Tony leaned out of the cab and spat on the VicPD impound floor. "Damn, this stinks."

She jumped out of the truck bed, having found nothing but rain-rotted tarps and a few crushed beer cans. "Anything?"

He used his flashlight to sweep the wheel wells and under the hood. VicPD's analysts had already searched it and found nothing. "Nope."

She slid beneath and examined the frame, but there was nothing—no blood, no weapon, no evidence of any crime other than slovenliness. "Nothing here, either."

"He's a pig, but not a killer."

Her skin prickled. She peeled off her latex exam gloves and tossed them in a trashcan. "Nicola said something about a pig having possibly killed Emma."

Tony tossed his gloves, too. "Ziva, _pig_ is a slang term for a cop."

Eight years in the States and still she had so much to learn. "Why would she think the police killed Emma?"

"She's a prostitute, _Zee-vah_. Their relationship is probably antagonistic at best. Haven't you ever seen _Taxi Driver_?"

"_You_ were a cop!"

"Yeah, I was. _Was_. Now I'm your partner."

She studied the dirty garage floor. "You found nothing?"

He slammed the pickup door. "Not even a joint. We need to tell VicPD to let him go."

"I want to call his father."

"Let him do that."

She hemmed. "I told him I would do it."

"When we thought he killed that pro."

"Sex worker."

He rolled his eyes. "I think he's off the hook for this."

"And we will find who is on it." He nodded. Her heart pumped _Em-ma, Em-ma_. "Someone has to know who Jane Doe was, Tony. Someone had to have been looking for her."

He ran a hand over his hair. "And they could be anywhere."

"Locally, I mean. These women aren't invisible."

He looked again over the body of the truck and shook his head. "Yeah, but it's late. Let's get a good night's sleep and try again in the morning."

She brushed dirt from the sleeves of her jacket. "We can go back to Rock Bay. There are probably more working women now that it's dark."

"No, we should call Gibbs and tell him Mertes is clean and that he can go. Then we'll go to bed and start fresh in the morning."

"Sex workers and drug dealers do not keep banker's hours, Tony."

"You don't get bonus points for running yourself ragged, Ziva."

Her temper flared. "This dead woman was someone's _family_ and you are going to tell me that we should not take every opportunity to bring her killer to justice? To bring them some kind of closure?"

The night watchman stuck his head around the corner at the sound of her shouting. Tony waved and his turned around. "Tell me," he ordered quietly.

She stomped toward their rental. "Tell you _what_?"

"Don't make me assume, Ziva."

She got in the driver's seat. "Assuming anything is a fool's errand."

"Somalia, Zee-vah. I was there. I saw the look on your face when Saleem pulled that sack off your head."

She ached from her head to her feet. "You are wrong."

"No, I'm not. You had no idea we were coming for you."

She stopped at a red light and looked at him, electrified with anger. "Someone is looking for her, Tony. Someone has lost their child, or their mother, or their sister, and they are looking."

"Tell me, Ziva."

Traffic was slow in the driving rain. "No."

"Tell me."

"Shut up."

"Tell me you get it."

"I do not know what you are talking about."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I do not. Drop it."

She pulled alongside the curb on Bay Street. Tony grabbed her hand before she could kill the ignition. "Don't do this," he begged softly. "Don't shut me out. We're past that."

Ziva blew out a long, shuddery breath. Rain drummed on the roof. It took many minutes of listening to it before she could speak. "I have not thought about that in many years."

"Somalia."

She clutched his hand like a lifeline. "Yes."

"I never, ever abandoned you. I never wrote you off."

"But you could have. You _should_ have."

"But that would kill me. I couldn't..."

"Please support me in this."

"I am," he vowed. "I'm here. I'm with you."

"Convince Gibbs to let me go undercover."

She can read the _hell no_ all over his stunned face. "Ziva I—"

"You said yourself that I understand these women, Tony. That I can identify with having been marginalized, with having to act out of desperation. Let me do this, and get Gibbs to let me do it. It is the only way to catch whomever is responsible for this."

"We don't even know that it's one person. It could be ten. Or a hundred."

"One is a start, Tony."

"Not one worth your life."

She held his hand tighter. "You know I can take care of myself."

"I don't have to like it."

A woman in a pink, sparkly dress knocked on his window. "Hey, honey."

He held up his and Ziva's linked hands. She disappeared into the shadows. "Tony," she started.

"Ok," he huffed. "Ok. You still want to talk to them?"

She let go of his hand and unbuckled her seat belt. "I will find Nicola. We need to tell her."

He didn't move. "You sure about this?"

"I am sure that they are worth it."

She watched him watch a dealer make a swap and duck into a waiting car. He nodded. "Then let's find Nicola and have that conversation."

They got out. She looked at him over the roof of the car. "Thank you."

His eyes were dark beneath the streetlight. "Don't make me regret this."

They walked side-by-side to Nicola's corner. A light in the harbor flashed _Em-ma, Em-ma. _ "I won't," she promised softly, and meant it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the delay. Life and such. **

**Thanks: girleffect, Amilyn**

**. . . .**

Nicola looked Ziva up and down. "Back for more, huh?"

"We could use your help."

She made a soft _psht_. "I told you what I know."

"Have you ever been to PEERS in Esquimault?" Ziva asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"They wrote a letter to VicPD. Eighteen women."

Nicola popped her hands and lit a cigarette. Smoke curled around her face. Surely Tony would make some obscure film reference. "Yep. And no one cares."

"I do."

She made the same _psht_. "What're _you_ gonna do about it, Gorgeous?"

"I want to find the person or persons who are murdering your friends."

Nicola pinched the burning embers off her smoke and let them fall. She pocketed the rest of the cigarette. "I could use a bite to eat."

"Any place you want," Tony promised quietly. Ziva gave his hand a surreptitious squeeze. _ Thank you_.

She led them to a deli on Government Street. Inside smelled like cabbage and wet cardboard. Red borscht simmered on a steam table. Roasted potatoes lazed in an aluminum pan under a heat lamp.

Nicola helped herself to soup, bread, and hot tea. "Where ya from?" she asked, chewing.

"New York," Tony answered honestly.

Ziva did not flinch. "Not important."

She squinted. "You ain't fooling me, Gorgeous."

"Why do you think the police killed Emma, Nicola?"

She stuffed more bread in her mouth. "I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did. You told me, _she either killed herself, or the pigs did it_. Why did you say that?"

Nicola pushed her plate away. "Because that little girl was losing it and they didn't do nothing. I _hate_ cops."

"What did you want them to do?"

"Pick her up on something bogus and give her a phone call home to Toronto. She needed her mama. But they didn't, and then Mom came sniffing around down here looking for her and VicPD and the Mounties started covering their tracks and pulling us in for questions. She was a good kid—not one of us."

Ziva leaned in. "And what if she _had _been?"

Nicola shrugged.

She took Mertes' mug shot out of her pocket. "Was this the bad date who tied up your friend Mona?"

Nicola shook her head. "No," she said without hesitation. "That's not him. Seen him around, though. Never dated him."

"Has anyone?"

"Not that I know. Saw him at Wheelie's. He was having a burger. I like their burgers."

Ziva sighed, frustrated. "But you never dated him and do not know anyone who did."

"Nope. Hey, I gotta roll. Thanks for the meal."

Ziva grabbed her dirty wrist. "We are not finished."

Nicola looked surprised, then angry. "This ain't _Pretty Woman_, Gorgeous, and I don't have time for your dog-and-pony show."

She flashed twenty bucks. Nicola eyed it hungrily. "Your friends deserve your help."

She didn't take her eyes off the folded bill. "You don't."

"I am working for _them_."

Everything slowed. Tony was still as a statue in the booth across from her. Nicola swallowed. "You know what you're getting into?"

"Yes."

"It ain't _Pretty Woman_."

She held the money just out of reach. "I know."

"Be at my place by two," she instructed, shoulders back. "John Street."

Ziva offered the money. Nicola slid it from her fingers and disappeared.

Tony's phone sounded. He answered _DiNozzo_ grunted once before hanging up. "We need to go."

She shook her head. "I am going to Nicola's at two."

He got up. "VicPD wants to help us. We need to set the op."

She followed, zipping her jacket against the cold. "Why are they suddenly so helpful?"

He got in the driver's side and slammed the door, jammed the seat back. "Because we just got the OK from Vance to send you under."

. . . .

Nicola lived in a single room above a furniture store that smelled like glue and sugar soda. Ziva stepped over a burned spoon on the stained carpet and adjusted the black halter dress she'd borrowed from VicPD's undercover unit. No place for a holster. She taped a switchblade to her inner thigh.

"Fresh meat," Nicola chided. "Highest price in the game."

She adjusted her earpiece. "Tony?"

"I'm here," he said. "Just waiting on Roberts."

"On the ground," Officer Roberts said. "Black SUV. I got four girls down here now. Ziva, you ready?"

"Yes."

Nicola nodded. "Get out there, sister."

She clipped down the dark, narrow staircase, up the block to Rock Bay Avenue. Drizzle fell on her unwashed hair. She ignored the goosebumps rising on her skin. "Dead down here."

"It's early," Robert said. "Around the corner, Ziva."

"Hillside Avenue?"

"Ellice. I got girls on Bridge and David."

"Dates?"

"One. Picked him up on Communication. She's back out."

A CI. They paid her. "Slow night."

"Easier that way."

Silence. She watched the few cars roll by, none of them even slowing as she skulked against the wall of a bombed-out warehouse. A gang tag was spray painted on a window across the street. She could not read it.

An hour ticked by. She paced, stomped, tiptoed. Nothing would draw the blood back into her frozen feet. "Anything, Roberts?"

"No."

"Tony?"

"Nada."

A pickup truck turned the corner, crept along the curb. She pasted a coy smile on her face when he rolled down the passenger-side window. "Hey."

He unlocked the door. There were condoms on the center console. The heater was going full-blast. "How ya doing?"

She slid in. "Fifty for the hour."

He was maybe thirty-five, with thick glasses and colorless hair that needed a trim. His pants were unzipped. "Twenty minutes," he bargained.

"Still fifty."

He drove to the same parking lot Nicola used. She pulled her badge from her bra when he put the car in park. "You are under arrest."

VicPD cuffed him, took him to a command station set up in portable, and she was back up on the avenue in less than five minutes. Her hands and feet ached from the cold.

"Nice work," Tony congratulated.

She watched one of the girls disappear in a blue sedan. "_Toda_."

A small SUV drifted by, then a pickup. She stepped out of the shadows and he slowed, popped the locks. "Fifty for the hour," she said, sliding in.

He was another nondescript man in clothes his wife had ironed that morning. "You like it rough?" he asked, sounding bored.

Again to the parking lot. Again with the badge, the arrest, off to the portable for booking, and she was on the block again.

"It is freezing out here," she complained.

"Weird how _you_ were the one who asked for this," Tony jabbed. She could hear the smile in his voice. Was he proud of her?

"I hate when couples fight," Roberts teased, and she felt herself go red beneath the rain and fog.

"Shut up."

"Black pickup around the corner," he said. "On your nine, Ziva."

It rolled up on her left. The driver ducked to look at her. "Fifty for the hour," she called.

He sped away. She hugged herself. Nicola strolled around the corner, cigarette in hand, tall pleather boots shining in the streetlights. She grinned at Ziva's shivering. "Thought a fast life was all fun and games, did ya?"

"Get off my corner, bitch."

"Dumb fresh meat," she mumbled, stalking off.

Two more johns. Two more arrests. Ziva grew numb to the cold, to the drizzle, to her ratty, rain-wet hair and streaked makeup.

"Sun's comin' up," Roberts observed.

There was a vein of orange in the clouds. "I thought we would see more action."

"We got plenty of evidence to process. Why don't you get off the streets?"

"It's time, Ziva," Tony chimed.

She swallowed. Her throat itched. Her back ached from standing in heels. "One more?"

"I don't see anyone," Roberts said.

"Me either," Tony agreed. "Call it."

He picked her up with the heat on full-blast and threw his jacket over her lap. "You need a shower."

She wrinkled her nose. "And you do not?"

"Not like you."

And he was right—the doorman turned his face away when she walked past, and the desk clerk called as soon as they were in the room, offering more towels. Tony accepted, sounding grateful, and she hung the dress on the back of the bathroom door while the water warmed.

Ziva lathered, rinsed, repeated. She used cold cream to remove her smudged makeup, slathered on moisturizer. Tony held out her pajamas when she emerged in a cloud of steam. He was in sweats. "Let's order room service."

She slid into her cotton pants, grateful for their softness. "I am not hungry."

He froze. "Are you ok?"

She got beneath the covers. Tears built behind her eyes. She closed them tightly. "I am fine."

He sat, put his hand on her knee. "You did great tonight."

"Thank you."

"Ziva."

She pinched her eyes tighter. "_What_, Tony?"

"Are you ok?"

She let a long silence lapse. "I am missing the cherry blossoms."

He lay down next to her. "I'm sorry."

"I will never get used to the humidity in DC at this time of year. It is positively _oppressive_."

He cupped her cheek. "Yeah."

"I am grateful for air conditioning."

"Yeah. You warm enough?"

She closed her eyes. "Yes."

"Pretty brave to do what you just did."

She would not look at him. "We do not even know if we picked up our killer."

"Or one of eighteen."

"One is a start. Goodnight, Tony."

He did not move his hand. "Goodnight, Ziva."

. . . .

Morning was white. White sun on the ceiling, white duvet, Tony's white face over his white coffee cup. His eyebrows were up. "You ok?"

"Fine. Why?"

"You just came awake like Ripley with a Chestbuster." He took a step back. "Am I in the safe zone?"

She gulped, glared at him. "I am not going to ask what you are talking about."

"_Aliens_? Fifty-seven years in hypersleep. Though you got about five. Better than my three, but not great. Want a coffee?"

She swung her legs out of bed. The carpet was rough beneath her bare feet. She was blistered from those ridiculous platforms. "Yes. Please."

She snagged her jeans and tugged them on without standing. Her calves were sore. "We should go to Sandy's for checkout. I would like to—"

"VicPD wants us ASAP for an interview."

She found a bra and a clean sweater. "No. I would like to go to Sandy's—"

"They picked up Mertes this morning. Had a pro in the truck with him."

She deflated. Wasn't there an idiom about an _old bag_? "Oh."

She let him drive to HQ. Officer Roberts met them at the reception desk. He looked fresh and clean and casual.

"Did you give him a phone call this time?" Ziva spat. The anger was a surprise, even to her.

She heard Tony sigh. Roberts shrugged. "I like him for this."

"That was not what I asked."

"Dad didn't pick up."

Fatigue pressed down all around her. A headache bloomed between her eyes. He turned without a word and took them back to the same interrogation room, where Mertes was cuffed and sitting with his head down.

She sat across from him and folded her hands. "Nathan?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"What were you doing, Nathan?"

He raised his head and sat up straight. "Helping a friend, ma'am."

She didn't quite buy his submissive act. "Your _friend_ is a known sex worker, and you are a person of interest in a murder case. Why did you do that?"

"My buddy called, said his sister was trying to get home. Asked me if I could give her a ride."

"To where?"

"He's from Comox."

"And how do you know him?"

"Work."

She pushed a legal pad and pen at him. "Please write down his contact information."

Tony was sitting on a filing cabinet when she came out. The heels of his sturdy shoes thudded against the metal drawers. "Bet you're glad you didn't call his dad _now._"

"Where is the girl?"

Roberts shrugged. "We don't keep 'em. Prostitution isn't illegal in Canada—only communication with intent."

"That is terribly ill-defined."

He sat in a squeaky swivel chair and put his hands behind his head. "We want the johns, not the girls."

Her heart was beating noisily in her tender chest. "And putting them back out on the street is the answer?"

"We direct 'em to services. People like Meredith."

_Meredith_. The women who'd signed the letter with the eighteen names. _Her girls_, she'd called them. "Let's go," she said to Tony, who slid off the filing cabinet and followed her like a puppy to the car.

She slammed the door, jerked the seat forward, whipped out of the parking space so fast the scenery flashed. Tony's silence incensed her further and she had to grip the steering wheel to keep from punching him.

"Stop that."

"What?"

"What do you mean _what_? I can _feel _you judging me."

"_I_ can feel how angry you are. I'm just trying not to get my ass kicked."

"You have never been one to keep a low profile, _Tony_."

He said nothing. Ziva's whole body burned hot with rage. "Mossad would never accept such sloppy investigating." She turned right at a light. None of the streets looked familiar. Rain sloshed against the tires. "The weather is terrible. And I am missing the cherry blossoms."

"Ziva?"

She jumped on the gas again. "_What_?"

"Do you even know where you're going?"

She pulled into a Tim Horton's and sighed. "No, I do not."

He pried her hand from the gear selector and held it tightly. "Talk to me."

Rain drummed on the roof. "Last night," she started quietly. "Was not the first time I had to use my body to . . . obtain information relevant to an investigation."

He didn't flinch, didn't recoil. "Ziva, did any of those guys—"

"No. But the idea of it is not new to me. And those women . . . they do not have backup, Tony."

She stole a glance at him. He was nodding slowly, slowly. "We can bring someone else in if you don't—"

"I will finish what I started."

She unbuckled her seat belt and slid out, flinching when rain chilled her face and neck. She pulled her hood up and sprinted to the door. A gust of wind stole her breath and she coughed, surprised.

Tony stepped ahead of her and pulled out his wallet. His forehead creased. "You ok?"

Anger bubbled beneath her irritation. "I am _fine_. If you ask me that one more time I am going to—"

"You coughed. I've never heard you cough. Or sneeze. Do you ever get sick?"

"No."

He paid for two coffees and motioned to a booth. "Wanna-?"

"We should go," she said quietly, and he followed her back out to the car. "That woman Roberts mentioned—Meredith—she wrote that letter."

"The eighteen names."

"She called them _her girls_."

He nodded, staring out at the wet streets. "We'll talk to Meredith. Then I want to go back to the hotel, order in lunch, and relax a little bit."

"I want to go back out tonight."

His jaw twitched. "I know. Turn right. We need to cross the Johnson Street Bridge."

. . . .

Meredith slapped a dozen fat files on the chipped formica counter between them. "I took these." She jabbed her trendy glasses higher on her nose. "Because the cops wouldn't."

Ziva eyed the pile. "Bad dates?"

"Yep."

She looked ready to tear their heads off. "I read the letter," Ziva offered. An olive branch. She thought of her father and schooled her features. "And these reports are...very thorough. Thank you."

"Who's dead?"

Tony shifted. "We didn't say anything about—"

She rolled her eyes. "Was it Emma? The pretty white girl? Did they find her in the harbor?"

"No," Ziva said quickly. "Why are you asking about her?"

"Did you miss the part where I said _pretty white girl_?"

"It is true that she does not fit the established patterns. You suspect she has died?"

"Suicide. She was a mess. I got the mental health call from VicPD, but by the time I got down there she was gone."

She nodded. "And the others?"

Meredith shrugged. "They're sex workers, addicts, aboriginals. Most of 'em were foster kids. Most of 'em never had half a chance. This was the only safe place they knew."

Ziva looked around. It was a small, stuffy building, furnished with cast-offs. Posters advertised free reproductive health care, addiction support, clean needles, shower facilities, a mailroom. Two women lounged, reading battered paperbacks. Voices could be heard from another room. The whole place smelled like soup and paint.

"What can you tell us about Donna?" she asked. She didn't take the autopsy photo from her pocket.

Meredith pulled off her glasses, rubbed her eyes. Her greying curls stuck up everywhere. "She came down from Alert Bay a few years ago—send down by First Nation authorities for cooking meth as a minor. Spent a few months in a group home up in Nanaimo. Short trip down to Rock Bay."

"She was using?"

"Of course. I got her clean needles at least once a week. She was fastidious—always showered, washed her clothes, went to the gynie, reported bad dates. She had her issues, but she was a good girl. How long she been dead?"

"I did not say—"

"Come _on_."

"She was found two nights ago in the back of a pickup truck."

"He in custody?"

"Yes, but we believe there is-"

"There always is," Meredith interrupted. "There will always be another bad date, and there will always be more girls to take 'em."

Ziva nodded, aching. She put her hand on the pile of folders. "There is an investigation underway. I have a subpoena to take these."

She waved her hands. "Take 'em. VicPD never did." Ziva nodded again, gathering them up. Meredith caught her arm before she could turn for the door. "Keep me in the loop, ok? Those were _my _girls."

"Thank you," she replied, mouth numb, and followed Tony out into the rain.

. . . .

Georgina had been sent from her Nootka reserve to the residential school in Port Alberni when she was eight. She'd been sterilized at fourteen, converted to Catholicism, and forced into sweatshop labor. She ran away, landing in Rock Bay by twenty-one and enrolled in PEERS services by twenty-three. She was the first to disappear, reporting a bad date on a Thursday and failing to show up for counseling on a Monday.

Andrea was 'Namgis. Her parents had been alcoholics. Meredith's notes indicated she'd been trafficked before she was twelve. Her teeth were rotten from heroin and a love of sugary sodas.

Angela had Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Her IQ was fifty-five. She loved rainbows and disappeared before a friend could tell Meredith she'd been assaulted.

Heather was a _big-time booster_, but gave away what she stole before she could sell it for drug money.

Sharon had come from Edmonton. Her boyfriend didn't like that she was _in the life_.

Helen made an adoption plan for her newborn daughter. Meredith helped her write the Open Communication Agreement. The child had symptoms of prenatal drug exposure and mild cerebral palsy. She'd been adopted by a family from Kamloops. Helen told Meredith that she liked their dogs.

Marnie, Olivia, and Monica were Sto:lo. Their reserve hugged the Fraser River in eastern BC.

Brenda rode her bicycle everywhere. She was HIV-positive.

Sheila started working at age eleven. The pimp promised a kitten if she worked three nights in a row on Rock Bay Avenue. _Reported having been sold by her father_, Meredith's notes said. _Mother died of cirrhosis in 1998._

Ziva dropped the file and pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. Her head throbbed. She blinked, took a swig of cold coffee, and opened the next file. Ruby bought her drugs in Vancouver, where she sometimes stayed with a friend on the Downtown Eastside. Her father was a famous Skatin woodcarver. Her file contained a photograph of one of his totems.

"What're ya doin'?" Tony slurred, startling her. "You're supposed to be napping."

_Napping_. _Right_. "Every one of these women reported a bad date before she went missing."

"Why are you on the floor?"

She'd settled cross-legged on the carpet, files in a tidy half-circle. "I did not want to wake you."

"Have you slept at all?"

"You know I did."

"Doesn't count. You had nightmares."

Those johns had turned into Saleems once the lights had gone out. Had she hoped he would not notice? "Meredith did not make a file for Emma."

"Why?"

She downed the last drops of her cold coffee. "She does not fit the pattern—not a sex worker, no history of drug abuse, and she was not aboriginal. Maybe she thought it was not necessary."

"She wasn't invisible like the rest of 'em."

Ziva bit her lips. "We do not have much time before I have to go to Nicola's."

Tony sat up, blankets falling to his waist. He'd slept bare-chested. "Let's order room service. What do you you want?"

She does not have the energy to choose. "Whatever you are having and a cup of tea."

"With milk?"

She stacked the folders, putting Sheila's on top. "Yes, please."

. . . .

It was less of a rain and more of a mist by the time Ziva got back out on the avenue. Same black dress, same switchblade taped inside her left thigh, same Tony in her earpiece. "Guy you just picked up has a history of DV. They'll get him on Communicating."

She crossed her arms. A white sedan slowed, stopped, sped away. "He will be out by morning."

"Sending you a pickup," Roberts interrupted. "Circled once already."

Ziva toed the edge of the curb in her platforms. A rusted-out Chevy chugged up beside her. "Fifty for the hour." Her throat itched. She sounded like Nicola.

He reached across and unlocked the door, face in the shadows. She climbed in. "Take Government," she instructed. "Park at the docks."

"Nah," he said, as though they were friends. "Let's go out to my place."

"Fifty an hour," she maintained, expecting him to change his mind. Nicola took fifty for a night.

"You like to party?"

"I like anything for fifty an hour."

He turned north, then west. Road signs pointed them toward Langford. She hadn't read about it in the guidebook.

"Got a party palace." His voice was high and a little nasal. "We'll have a real good time."

Was Tony hearing this? Roberts? "You holding?"

"Sure, sure."

Roberts was radioing to a unit in Colwood. Someone else said _Glen Lake_. "I need a fix," she mumbled.

"Sure, sure." He turned again. She caught sight of a sign for Metchosin before he turned down an unpaved road. The shocks rattled. Her head bounced against the window.

Her john put his hand on her thigh. She slapped him away. "I want an hour up front."

He yanked the wheel. The truck ground to a stop. Outside was heavily forested. She saw stars through tall trees. "Nope," he chuckled. "Nope. I'll just get you what you need."

"I need a fix _now_."

He put it in gear and pulled back onto the roadway. Gravel rained in the wheel wells. "Sure, sure."

She changed tactics, hoping someone was listening. "Where you live?"

"Oh, ya know. Up the road a piece."

"I started the clock when you picked me up." He grunted. "What's your name?"

"Bobby," he said. "You?"

"Not important." She put a coy fry in her voice.

"Nope, I s'pose not. We'll just party."

Tony crackled over the earpiece. "We got you outside of Sooke, Ziva. Get him to drop you off."

"Take me to Sooke," she demanded, whining.

"We're gonna party."

"I won't make it."

"A'ight, a'ight. Where you need dropped off?"

"Gas station right in town. My friend Tony can get me something."

"Tony. He your boyfriend?"

"My friend."

"You work for him?"

"Maybe."

There were lights over the next ridge. Her heart leapt. "Yeah, right in town. A gas station."

The Chevron sign appeared. Beneath it were two Sooke police cruisers. Bobby shook his head. Ziva finally saw his face in the garish lights and tried not to recoil; he was a _homely_ man. "Nope, nope," he said, grinning. "I don't like those policemen."

"C'mon," she urged. "I'm sick."

His features shifted, grin sliding sideways. His gnarled hand found her throat and squeezed. She gagged, resisted the urge to snap his neck. "Nope, nope," he repeated. "I don't like those policemen."

He ran a red light, still gripping her throat. Her vision blurred. She clawed at his wrist, breaking the skin. They'd get his DNA from under her fingernails. _Let me go_, she tried to say, but his hand tightened, cutting off the air completely. She let go of his hand, fumbled with the door latch, and slid out, hitting the macadam with a wet _shickt_. Flesh tore from her knees and hip. Her elbow made contact with the curb and panged, sending sparks up her arm. Cars whooshed by and blue lights flashed somewhere nearby.

She came to rest with her shoulder jammed in the gutter. The mist turned to rain and fell on her upturned face.

"Agent David?" someone asked.

She tried to find him in the haze. "Yes?"

"I'm Officer Polito with Sooke PD. Roberts called ahead—we've been tailing you since the petrol station. A bus is on it's way."

He draped an emergency blanket over her. She held her hands up, panting. Her throat was raw fire. "Swab my neck and hands for epithelials before the EMTs get here. They will destroy the evidence."

His boots slid on cinders. "Agent David—"

"Take the evidence, Officer Polito."

His footsteps retreated, a car door slammed, and then a white box appeared in her peripheral vision. He dug under each fingernail without drawing blood, swabbed her neck, bagged everything, sealed the envelopes.

Ziva shivered. "Give the kit to my partner. He will send it to our evidence lab in Washington DC."

An ambulance pulled up. EMTs jumped out, hauling kits and a spineboard. She sat up, head spinning, and waved them off. "I am fine."

"You could have serious injuries," one of them said. She couldn't focus on his face. "Let us put you on the board, please."

"No."

"You need to come to the hospital. Police procedure."

She sat up fully, making sure her dress covered _something_. "There is nothing wrong with me."

"You're bleeding."

She coughed. "Then get me a Band-Aid."

Traffic slowed. A Crown Vic pulled over and Tony jumped out, sprinted toward her. He collapsed on her right, took her cheeks in his hands. "You ok?"

"I am fine. Tell _them_ that."

He looked at Polito and the medics, then back at her. His face fairly swam in her sight. "Hop in the back of the bus. Let 'em glue you up."

Ziva relented, let him lever her off the curb and guide her to the open ambulance doors. Two medics patched her up, took her temperature, checked her pupils, felt her neck and back.

"You're roughed up, but ok," one said.

"Told you," she nudged, looking at Tony. His eyes were worried. "Did you get the evidence?"

He disappeared. She shoved off the bumper and walked unsteadily to the VicPD unmarked. The keys were in the ignition. She got in the passenger seat and turned the engine over. _Heat_. She was stiff with cold and bruises.

And he was there in a minute, tucking his coat around her, putting the envelope on the console between them. "Scared the hell out of me, _Zee-vah_."

She tried to read the return address label. "We will have to overnight this to Abby. The tissue breaks down quickly."

He swung the car in an U-turn. She closed her eyes. Dinner crept up her esophagus. It took a long moment to settle. "That was him," she rasped finally.

"It was _someone_."

"It was him. He choked me. He said we were going to party."

Tony drove, saying nothing.

"It was him," she repeated.

The road widened. He took the left lane, speeding.

"I need to get back out there, Tony. He will pick up another girl. We cannot know that—"

"No."

"I have _skills_," she argued. "I can take care of myself."

"Like you just did?" he snarled. His hands were tight fists around the steering wheel.

"Yes," she snapped. "_Exactly_ like that. Another woman would have been dead by now, Tony. We cannot let that happen."

There was water on her right. Boats and buoys sailed by as Tony drove east to Victoria. "You're a mess."

"You have said that before."

"He won't be back tonight. Let's call it for now."

"Did Sooke PD get his license plate number? Polito said he tailed us."

"No. No lights on the plate."

"Then I need to get back out there."

They pulled into a parking space at the Inner Harbour. Jazz music floated out from one of the waterfront restaurants. "Tomorrow," he bargained. "We spooked him."

"And put another woman at risk of being murdered, Tony. You _have_ to—"

"The hell I do, Ziva." He picked up the radio. "I'm calling it off for tonight, guys. Go home. Get some rest." He released the talk button and looked at her for a long time. She didn't guess at what he was seeing. "And we'll pick it up again tomorrow."

She exhaled in relief. He dropped the mic and ran a hand over his face. "Thank you," she murmured.

"I made a promise," he said, staring at her. "One I'm regretting." She swallowed. Her throat was full of hot metal. "But if I don't do this then you'll do it alone."

_At lo le'vad_. "I am grateful, Tony.

He brushed her dirty curls away from her eyes and gave her a long, pointed look. "I know."


End file.
